


Out and About

by lyricalsoul



Series: Mycroft's In Love [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I made up all these places, M/M, Mycroft in casual clothes, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As promised, Mycroft takes Lestrade on a day out. There's breakfast, shopping, and a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out and About

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last bit of this series. Thank you to all who read and gave kudos and comments, and basically welcomed me to the wonderful world of Mystrade with open arms. I enjoyed writing this, and am glad for each person I've "met" through it. 
> 
> Thank you so much. Enjoy, even though the storytelling is a bit... weird.

“Are you ready?” Mycroft comes out of the lounge with an all-too-innocent look on his face. “The car is waiting.”

I turn away from the bureau to reply, but when I look at him, I can’t make my mouth form any words. Christ Almighty. He’s… I shake my head, and clear my throat. “Um…”

“Gregory?”

“Ah…” I swallow hard. “Oh, Mycroft. Your clothes.”

“What?” He frowns, looks down at himself, and then back at me. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

“No, no.” I try to sound reassuring, but I can’t really focus. “You look… oh my god…”

His brows lift. “Is ‘oh my god’ good? Because I feel so out of sorts without my waistcoat and watch chain, I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

“Ah… so casual clothes are the Iceman’s kryptonite.”

“I feel distinctly uncomfortable. It’s… distracting.”

He sounds so forlorn, I almost pity him. Almost. “Oh, poor you without your pocket-watch and eight layers of clothing – the world may end.”

“I couldn’t possibly oversee the apocalypse dressed like this," he says plucking imaginary lint from his shirt sleeve. “No one would take me seriously.”

“Heaven forbid,” I laugh. “Well, my sexy mastermind, in this case, ‘oh my god’ is definitely good.” I step back, taking in the full effect of Mycroft in casual clothes. They are definitely bespoke, because even to my untrained eye, I can tell that they haven’t come off any rack because they fit him perfectly. Well-fitting tan trousers pressed to sharply creased perfection, falling with precision to the tops of his shoes. And the shoes… tan and navy suede loafers that match his clothes as if they were made for them. And they probably were, damn him.

His shirt… my god… it’s got my mouth watering. Blindingly white and crisp, with tan and navy tartan at the inside of the collar, and on the flip side of cuffs, which he has folded above his wrists. It makes me want to grab the expensive fabric in my hands and rub him all over. “You look so absolutely sexy… I could spend the day just looking at you. Or touching you inappropriately. Or shoving you back into bed and showing you exactly what you dressed like this does to me. It’s a toss-up.”

He gives me a cool look. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“As if I’d stoop to something as silly as flattery with you.” I figure showing is better than telling, so I move up behind him, and put my arms around his waist. “Not that I don’t lust after you in anything you’re wearing… or not wearing, but this is special. Casual, but still fancy…coordinated to death. It’s just so you. I like how these trousers show off your arse… your jackets hide this, and god, I wish they didn’t, because it’s so very fine. But then, I’m glad you keep it covered because I wouldn’t be able to control my jealousy… all those government blokes ogling you.”

“Oh, most assuredly,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “You’re biased.”

“You’re just so used to keeping all this sexiness under wraps, you’ve become cynical.”

“I’m practically naked.” He fastens a watch – Breitling, I determine with a squinty look - around his right wrist, and sighs. “Well, nothing to be done for it.”

“You look wonderful,” I say, nipping at his neck. “And you smell deliciously sexy. What’s that scent?” It’s barely there, but I’m getting a whiff of wood, and spice, and… man. Damn.

“It’s called Mahogany. Nothing you can’t buy yourself.”

“I like it on you. You smell…” I lean in again, inhaling heavily. “…like late nights by the fire, expensive, manly, and powerful. I want to do everything you tell me to.”

“Mission accomplished, then.”

“That’s the secret to your success? Cologne?”

“It’s one of many secrets.” He laughs and steps away from my groping hands. “I would be remiss in my person-of-significance duties if I neglected to tell you how absolutely ravishing you look.”

I look down at myself and shrug. “Jeans, shirt, boots. Standard day off from work clothes. Not nearly on par with you.”

“Standard? I beg to differ. The cut of your clothes isn’t your usual; you’re… dressier. The dark denim is very flattering. It makes your legs look longer, and your thighs look rather…ah, muscular and fit in them. And they fit you perfectly - not obscenely tight, but not obnoxiously baggy as has been the fashion, and I’m extremely grateful, because…” He moves behind me “…it would be a crime to hide the stunning view from the back.” His hands come up over my shoulders and down to rest on my chest. “You were right not to wear that awful bulky jumper, as it wouldn’t flatter as this shirt does.”

I frown. “How-“

He puts a finger on my lips. “Normally, I would say that grey would clash with your skin tone and hair, but this shade, so dark and rich with the light grey pin, makes you… shine, if you’ll pardon the teenage slang. The matching suede ankle boot is lovely as well. I fear I may develop a fetish.”

“You already have a shoe fetish.”

“Perhaps, but never for anyone else’s shoes. You look like the cover of one of those magazines that purport to be about exercise, but are really showcasing photos of near-naked, rather sexy men.”

I flush at the compliment, and clear my throat. “How did you know about the jumper?”

“Lint in your hair. Obvious.”

“Only to you,” I laugh and brush at my hair. “So… what’s on the agenda for today?”

He reaches a hand up, and plucks a piece of lint from the top of my hair. “Contrary to the popular belief that I am a hopeless layabout, and use my minions to have things done for me-“

“You do.”

“Semantics. I merely take advantage of the resources at hand to ensure that I am not physically taxed by something as mundane as… shopping. However, I’m of a mind to observe human nature as you walk by my side as I take on errands that I have heretofore entrusted to my more minor assistants. Breakfast first, if you wish.”

“Wait…” Getting past the Mycroft-speak is no easy task, especially so early on a week-end, and without an incentive. But once I get the gist of what he’s said, I frown. “You’re taking me on your errands to show me off?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds rather crass.” He ducks his head. “Have I overstepped my bounds?”

“Do we have bounds?”

“Such things tend to appear without warning.”

“You haven’t,” I assure him.

“Good. I am not by nature a modest man, Gregory. And since you are the first, ah, partner I’ve had, and you happen to be devastatingly handsome, I would love to go about town with you at my side, observing the envy of others. ”

“So, I’m just your arm candy, holding your bags while you shop?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I already have someone to hold the bags. Your job is to stand about, looking pretty. Come along, then.” He pats my arse, and leaves the bedroom without a backward glance.

***

We have breakfast: 

To my surprise, when Mycroft doesn’t eat at his club, or at home, he eats breakfast in a small café in Kennington (“Bistro”, he insists, as he doesn’t “frequent cafes”) run by a rather beautiful young woman with a cheeky grin, who introduces herself as Jay. That she’s American is a bit of a surprise, but if Mycroft eats here, it must be good.

It’s a spacious place, filled with government types in shirts and ties, which, in my opinion, is a bit stuffy for a weekend, but this is Mycroft’s element, and I’m surprised there aren’t servers in tuxedos. There are a few undersecretaries and ministers scattered about, and a long queue of clerks taping away on their phones, chomping at the bit to be seated. Jay, not just owner, but head chef, gushes over Mycroft as if he were Prime Minister, and seats us in a booth near the back of the spacious room with a view of everyone and everything. She smirks at Mycroft when he introduces me, declares me both gorgeous and lucky, and I catch her ogling our arses as we sit down. Minutes later, an icy pitcher of blood orange mimosas appear at our table, and after a few sips, I determine she’s a bit of all right with me.

Mycroft orders his “usual” (an egg white omelet with mushrooms – no cheese, with a side of dry toast, and coffee), which Jay declares boring, and says he simply must have the “Boss” this time. To Jay’s delight, Mycroft agrees to have it, but only if she leaves off the confectioner’s sugar, which he hates. I am coaxed into ordering the “Full Monty”, which is an omelet, filled with bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, sausages, potatoes, and beans, and is covered with cheese. It comes with toast, and homemade jam. When I hesitate, Mycroft assures me that Jay is rarely wrong in choosing,  and to fight her will “not end well”, so I go with the flow.

Not long after we order, a huge bowl-shaped pancake is delivered to our table and set in front of Mycroft. It’s filled with custard, and is topped with strawberries, blueberries, bananas, sprinkles of granola, and whipped cream. It’s got a dark sauce drizzled on top of it, and it looks deadly. Mycroft looks at it helplessly, but takes up his knife and fork and digs in, reminding me with a look that I promised to help eat it. One taste, and I’m ready to marry Jay just so I can sit at the counter and be fed.  My omelet isn’t as lavish presentation-wise, but is equally delicious. I may have embarrassed Mycroft by moaning a bit too loudly at the first taste. 

We get more than a few looks from the other diners – they seem to be mostly shocked to see Mycroft in casual clothes, and us sharing from each other’s plates. Right in the middle of discussing the merits of football versus polo, and which sport offers the more attractive player, we’re interrupted by a shouty fellow – Malcolm, he says to me, and looks offended when I don’t give him my name in return.  Mycroft gives him a look that makes me shiver, and he apologises (stopping just short of bowing), and scurries back to his table. I give Mycroft a questioning look, but he simply rolls his eyes and concedes that footballers tend to be more handsome than polo players. I shake my head, and enjoy my fourth mimosa.

As we’re finishing up our coffee, that Malcolm chap makes a big production of letting us know that our meal is his treat. But Mycroft, in full Iceman-mode, isn’t having any of it. He removes the gold card on top of our check, and replaces it with his own black one (with a simple M Holmes embossed on it). Malcolm blushes and offers a tight smile. “Another time, then,” he squeaks, and heads off.

Jay trumps them both by handing Mycroft back his card with a glare. “Really, Mr. Holmes? I thought we had an agreement?”

“Apologies,” he says with a faint blush tinting his cheeks.

“Unnecessary. Just come back, and bring gorgeous Gregory with you. That will make my day.”

I lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek. “As you’ve made mine.”

Only her brown skin hides the blush I’m sure is blossoming on her cheeks. “Whoo.” She gives us a bright smile, and heads back to the kitchen.

“You with your black card,” I tease as we walk back to the car.

“I hate having my breakfast ruined by toadying. It’s so gauche, and Malcolm should know better by now.”

“Well, all that aside, breakfast was delicious. She’s an excellent chef.”

“Computer expert for Six. Poached her from the CIA,” Mycroft says. “They were letting her rot as a file clerk. Cooking is her hobby. She’s only open at week-ends, and even then you have to call in advance. I have a standing.”

“Of course you do,” I mutter as I duck into the backseat of the car.

***

We Visit A Bookstore:

Of course, a man like Mycroft wouldn’t just pop in to the local big chain bookstore and buy something off the bestseller’s list. That would be…common.

No, when Mycroft Holmes goes to buy books, he goes back in time. Well, not really, of course, but the tiny bookstore we stop in, stashed away on a cobblestone side street, is something right out of a fairy tale. Tall, curved shelves packed expensive books with leather spines and gold lettering. There are white gloves for browsing and ladders that roll about the room… Mycroft is in heaven. The proprietor, an ancient bloke who calls himself “X”, is delighted to see Mycroft, and starts chattering on about a first printings and maps, and my eyes start to glaze over. X does eventually remember his manners, and after learning my name, rank and serial number, hands me a pair of gloves and an ancient detective novel from the 1850’s.  Hopefully, this will keep me occupied while Mycroft melts over an ancient map of the world. I accept the book with a smile and a wink, and promptly take a seat in one of the plush armchairs to read.

After he tires of being pushed about on the ladder, Mycroft ends up buying a dusty-looking book on 19th century crime for Sherlock, The Art of War for John (“He needs it to deal with Sherlock”), and a historical book of cookery for Mrs. Hudson (“She puts up with so much”). He also purchases a first edition of a book in a language I can’t read, and sighs over a gorgeous first edition Rumi… he caresses the pages in a way that makes me shift in the chair, but unfortunately, he doesn’t buy it. (I happen to love Rumi, and will put it on my list of gifts to buy him.)

On the way to the car, Mycroft gives me a swift kiss full on the lips, and thanks me for “indulging his little whims”. What a riot.

We Shop for Socks:

Just outside of London, in a discreet building, Mycroft shops for what he loosely terms “things”. There’s no address – only a large C etched on the front of the building. You only get in by appointment, which Mycroft has, and it also seems that you have to hand over a few notes to the doorman. I pretend not to notice, and follow Mycroft to the gilded lift.

We take the lift to the top floor, and are greeted by a cheery shopgirl who toadies and smiles as we enter. Inside, there are rows of, scarves, tie pins, hats, cufflinks, key fobs, pens, wallets, braces, money clips, and those silly clanging balls for your desk. There are also socks. Because Mycroft, the posh git, can’t just go to Marks and Spencer to get socks. (“Never underestimate the power of a crossed leg, Gregory”). He buys a particular brand, that fit a particular way, that make a particular statement to anyone who sees them. (And honestly, if the fate of the free world is resting on how a bloke’s socks fit, I’m done) They come in black, navy, and brown. There is also argyle, (“for days when you need to convey to your visitor that they’re not important”) but those are evidently frowned upon. And they are expensive. Mostly because they don’t bunch, wrinkle, or fall down. And they don’t require garters. He buys seven pairs of each. I make no comment, other than to shake my head.

While he’s swooning over a pen that costs more than my sofa, I wander over to take a look at a row of umbrellas. I never use an umbrella unless I’m walking with Mycroft (rare), or if there’s an outright downpour. My mum always stressed that a little rain never hurt anyone as long as your coat was waterproof. Mycroft is rarely without his umbrella, even on sunny days, which leads me to believe that there’s more going on that just a simple umbrella. I pick up one that I think looks like one of his (he’s got seven), but before I can get a good look at it, one of the clerks comes over, takes it away, advising me in a firm but polite tone that it is not a toy.

Mycroft laughs and promises to let me play with his umbrella when we get home. The clerk blushes and scurries away.

“So, your umbrella doubles as a weapon?” I ask, watching as Mycroft piles more bags in Eugene’s capable hands.

“No, it does not. I’m not James Bond, despite your efforts to make me into him.”

“Well, you’re fueling my fantasies,” I say, ignoring Eugene’s smirk. “If it wasn’t a weapon, why wouldn’t the clerk let me see it?”

“Gregory.”

“Fine,” I say, giving in. “But when we get home, I’m taking the one with the wooden handle apart.”

He only smiles and gets into the car.

***

We Have A Lovely Ending:

I breathe in deeply, enjoying the smell of grass and leaves. I shift on the blanket beneath me, reaching for my glass of wine. The sun is flittering through the tree we’re under, and the sound of the small waterfall off to the left is soothing. I’m stuffed with meat, cheese, olives, and wine, and have been dozing off and on for the past hour. Mycroft sits beside me, long legs folded, chin propped on his fist.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “More wine?”

“Hm?” He blinks, and then turns to me. “Oh, no, thanks. I’m fine. Did you enjoy the day?”

“Very much.  I learned a lot about you today. And this picnic by the lake is just fantastic. I had no idea you liked such things.”

“I have, on occasion, come here to escape. It’s the last place anyone would think to look for me. It’s very peaceful, as you can see, and blissfully devoid of children.”

“Blissfully so,” I agree. “Like a Lover’s Lane.”

He frowns a bit, then shakes his head. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Lover’s lane? I will not indulge your public sex fantasies, Gregory.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Hedonist.”

“I’m not the one who spent a small fortune on a pair of socks.”

“Yes, well…” He blushes. “Too pretentious?”

“Do you care?”

“The adage that you get what you pay for is quite true when it comes to socks.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I love that you’re a man of expensive tastes and mystery. It works out well for me.”

“Yes, it does,” he smiles. “I have something for you.” He holds out a square black velvet box.

I sit up quickly, my heart thudding. The box is too big to be a ring, but too small to be a tie, or socks, or… shit. “What is it?”

“If you would open it, your question will be answered.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then with slightly shaking hands, I open the box. “Oh…” Inside is a translucent keycard with my initials on it. “Is this…? It’s a key. Well, keycard.”

“To my house. I…” He blushes again, looks away, then back at me. “I’d like you to move in with me.”

“Are you… Mycroft, you’re… are you sure?”

“Quite.”

“It’s a big step.” I look at the keycard, and think of all it implies. “I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re getting past all that.”

“I know, and I’m not asking because I want to cage you.” He breathes in and out for a few moments, then says, “I am a solitary creature, Gregory. But over the past eight months, I have come to need you. I do not like sleeping without you, do not like coming home without you there, and love the simple smell of you in my house. I’m asking you to make it permanent. If you don’t care for my house, I can find another, more suitable location. I am not given to begging, or to repeating myself, but I will, because having you there every day would make me quite happy.”

I smile and nod. “How can I not say yes? I want you to be happy.”

“Is that your only reason? I wouldn’t want you to feel an obligation…”

“I don’t. You know I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to. Besides, I happen to love you.”

“I know you do.”

“And I know you feel the same.” I frown when he goes stiff. “Don’t you? I’m a bit slow when it comes to other languages, but you’ve said it in French, Spanish, and German, haven’t you?”

“I have. And yes, I do love you.” His tone is quiet and filled with wonder. “Honestly. It’s strange that I could feel this way, after years of telling myself that I didn’t need anyone. When you left me, I felt… cold. Cold, and empty, and alone. It frightened me that I’d let you get so close in so little time. But now… I have you back, and I want to have you with me. The feeling is strange, but I will grow accustomed to it. If you would be patient…”

“Of course.” I lean in and kiss him softly, then pull away. “I sometimes have mates over for poker and to watch matches. They’re coppers, and aren’t used to… fancy.”

“I am sometimes forced to host governmental dinner parties. You won’t like it.”

“And my mum, my sisters, and their kids are a bit… well, I suppose you’d say uncouth.” I shudder. “And you’ll have to meet my Gran, who will hate you on general principle because you turned me into a poof.”

“Of course,” he says, his tone wry. “I’ll introduce you to Mummy, and to Aunt Imogen. It will be horrific.”

“I’ll borrow your special socks, and make you angry a lot.”

“I will ignore you terribly when there is a work-related crisis.”

“I’ll fall asleep at my desk at least twice a week. And I’ll go back to my old flat, forgetting that I live with you.”

He laughs. “I’ll be sure to send a car on the days that you do.”

“I eat an awful lot of takeway. Curry, pizza…”

“Mrs. Landingham will see to it that you don’t have to.”

I sigh. “You don’t like a good fry up. Or donuts. Or chips.”

“No,” he says with a frown. “But I will eat pizza with prosciutto and olives. And I do love a good Chinese. And if the chips are fried in duck fat, I will eat them.”

“High class, that.”

“I rejoice in our differences.”

With a laugh, I pat him on the leg. “Sherlock will pout.”

He smiles and stands. “Yes.” Taking hold of my hand, he hauls me up, and pulls me close. “I look forward to it.” He backs up, so he’s leaning against the tree. “You make me want things I’ve never wanted before, Gregory. How do you do that with such ease?”

I grin, and fit myself against him gently, mindful of the rough bark against his back. “What things would you be wanting?”

“You… and to have you ravish me here in the park, against this tree.” He groans as I press a kiss to his throat. “But we shouldn’t.”

“Nope,” I agree, and move my hips against his. “You’re very tempting, though. So sexy, and all put together. I love unraveling you. This shirt is driving me crazy. The thought of you in nothing but argyle socks is driving me crazy.”

“Well, we can’t have that. I suppose that one kiss wouldn’t hurt.”

“Not at all.” I capture his mouth with mine, and oblige him, reveling in the faint hint of olives and wine on his tongue. Christ, he kisses like there’s no tomorrow, and I feel myself heating up, wanting more, wanting to strip him bare, and lay him down on that ridiculously soft blanket and fuck him until the sun sets. I yank my mouth from his and step back. “Fuck, Mycroft.”

“Yes,” he pants, leaning heavily against the tree. “We should go. The need to strip you is overwhelming.”

“Is it?”

“Don’t be coy,” he says, stooping to gather up the hamper. “Fold the blanket, and come along. I’ve got chocolates and champagne waiting at home.”

I fold the blanket, and look up at him. “You were that sure of my answer?”

“There was an eighty-nine point three chance that you would agree. If you said no, I was going to cuff you to my bed, drizzle champagne all over you, and lick it off until you agreed.”

“Used those methods before, have you?”

“As has been previously stated, I was never a honey trap for the government.”

“You should have been,” I say, with a leer. “'No, Iceman… not the chocolates… I’ll do anything… just don’t lick me there…'”

“Gregory,” he sighs. “At any rate, you’ve saved me a bit a legwork by saying yes.”

“You could still do it. For practise.”

“Legwork,” he repeats with a grimace.

“A sensual assault,” I correct. “Using all the talents at hand to extract the needed information.”

“Hm.” He takes my hand. “I had a wonderful day, Gregory. Thanks for sharing it with me, and for consenting to live with me.”

“It was great. Thank you for the day, love.”

He blushes and tugs me along. “I do love you, Gregory. I know it’s not the type of love other people would have, but it’s what I have. Is it…sufficient?”

“It’s perfect,” I say, smiling broadly.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Just… I never imagined it: Mycroft’s in love. With me."

He shakes his head, and keeps walking, allowing me the last word.

 ***

 

*Mycroft’s cologne is a real cologne called Mahogany by Demeter. I smelled it, and swooned.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The chef, Jay, is modeled after my daughter, who is a chef, and computer genius, and would cook the hell out of both those entrees. With the beans.
> 
> None of the other places exist, so no complaining. I made it up, I made it up! 
> 
> Mycroft's clothes actually exist. If you Google "casual bespoke", you will see them eventually. 
> 
> And in case you didn't know, the title of this series was based on the song by Rickie Lee Jones, Chuck E's in Love... hence, Greg's last line.
> 
>  
> 
> The madness continues in Love and Happiness. Go forth and read. Please.


End file.
